


Twist the Sinews

by canarypaper



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canarypaper/pseuds/canarypaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson would recognize Sebastian Moran anywhere.</p><p>*SPOILERS* for the entirety of "A Game of Shadows".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twist the Sinews

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off a kinkmeme prompt that read, "I just want to see these two [Moran and Watson] beating the everliving hell out of each other. The more gruesome the injuries, the better." I was more than happy to provide, even though it turned out a bit more plotty than I anticipated. Certain phrases are lifted directly from the canon story "The Empty House" and one, I believe, from "The Sign of the Four". Also includes homages to many other incarnations of stories.

It is well past ten o’clock when the opera lets out.

The lamps are already lit, patrons bustling out into the shadowed streets, climbing into hansom cabs or walking home, arm-in-arm. There is a crisp spring chill in the air, and Mary shivers while Watson helps wrap her shawl snugly around her delicate shoulders. She looks at him, her small, fond smile on her lips. He cannot help but smile back.

The opera had been a distraction. Not an effective one, but a distraction all the same. The escapism had lasted approximately a quarter of an hour before Watson began to remember Holmes hiding in the scenery of “Don Giovanni”. Watching the rising and falling curtains, the lowering of scenery from the battens, it was all too familiar for him.

Mary grips his hand tightly. “Are you with me, John?” Mary asks, lips downturned, concern plainly evident in her voice.

Watson clears his throat and tries to give her a winning smile. It is only a half-crook of his lips. “Always.”

She smiles again, a little sadly. “No,” she says, “not tonight.” She strokes her soft, gloved thumb over the back of his hand and walks them toward the street.

He remembers those first days after his return from Afghanistan. They had been like this. Full of hours spent staring at nothing, an overwhelming sense of loss. Memories of events gone past playing out before his waking eyes. Of guilt. Pain.

“Work is the best antidote,” Holmes had told him pointedly one morning after a particularly violent nightmare. He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened, but they both knew. Watson had awoken that night to find himself standing straight up, staring Holmes in the face, his service revolver shaking in his hand. He had dreamt of battle, of certain death. But there was only Holmes there, standing in the doorway of his bedroom.

From that point onward, he assisted Holmes with every case up until his engagement to Mary.

The pain then had been bearable. It was war. It was horrific, but it was a part of life. He had distance between himself and the conflict. Miles upon miles of distance.

But now...

The battlefield had been London. Holmes his brother-in-arms. More than that. The other half of his soul, it seemed at times.

There is no distance between the still fresh memories that haunt him in this city. Holmes is everywhere. He is the old beggar on the street with the twisted lip. The lethargic man stumbling from an opium den. The gypsy woman telling fortunes in the alley.

Watson takes a deep breath, trying to forcefully stop the constriction in his throat. He links his arm with Mary’s, threading their fingers together.

He hails the hansom, having left the automobile at home thinking the noise to be a bit more than either of them could handle tonight. He helps Mary up and is about to follow when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees something that makes his entire body go still.

He knows that face.

Every muscle in his body tenses, vision narrowing to the one fixed point weaving in and out of the crowded street.

A tall man, wide brim of his hat tipped down, shoulders hunched to minimalize his appearance. Trimmed beard and mustache, sharp, vigilant eyes. He is carrying a long package wrapped in brown paper and twine. He would bet his life that it is a rifle.

John Watson would recognize Sebastian Moran anywhere.

The burning beat of impending violence thrums underneath his skin and he feels his blood run hot. His hand’s grip tightens around his cane concealing its sharp blade. There is not a moment to lose.

“John?” Mary asks.

His face has gone stoic, his movements methodic. He grabs a wad of notes from his pocket and shoves them into the driver’s hand. He barks the address, adding, “Do not stop until you get her there! Do you understand me?”

The driver gives a startled nod before tipping his hat and setting the horse off at a worrying speed.

“JOHN!” Mary shouts, craning her neck out of the cab.

But he cannot hear her anymore.

Every sense he possesses is focused in on that one, singular target just yards away.

If not for him, Sherlock Holmes might still be here. He could be sitting at 221B, manic as ever, experimenting on some godforsaken rodent, but alive. Tangible. Breathing.

He was Moriarty’s right hand man. If he cannot kill Moriarty for ripping away a piece of his heart, then he will settle for the next best thing.  
Watson moves with deadly purpose.

Pushing his way through the crowds, ignoring indignant shouts from well-dressed gentlemen, frantic gasps from opulent ladies, he watches as Moran slinks through the sea of people, his goal a distant, darkly lit street.

“Watch where you’re going!” shouts a particularly cantankerous man, and Watson sees Moran turn his head just-so toward the crowd.

Their eyes lock. The dawning of realization is a pleasure to watch, for Watson. A fleeting glimmer of fear, quickly glazed over with resignation.

The distance between them dwindles quickly.

Moran begins to run.

The game is afoot, Watson thinks, breaking into a run. The pain that flares up in his leg does nothing to slow him. If anything, it only drives him on harder.

Moran knocks a couple to the ground in his haste, and Watson leaps over them, feet skidding slightly on the damp street.

They chase each other through alleyways, Moran knocking empty crates over to try and block his path. Watson is able to lunge forward and grasp the back of the man’s coat, pulling him off balance. He falls to the ground, his parcel skidding away from him with a clatter. Watson moves to kick Moran in the gut, only to have his legs knocked from under him. He falls hard, head colliding with the brick street.

Moran settles a boot heavy on his chest. “I’m not here for you,” he growls, pressing down hard, forcing the air out of Watson’s chest.

A wheezing laugh escapes Watson, head spinning from the impact. He looks straight into Moran’s piercing eyes. All he can see is Holmes’ eyes closing, the look of calm that had passed over his face right before he fell at Reichenbach.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Watson hisses, “because I’m here for you.” He unsheathes his cane-sword and swipes it towards Moran’s leg.

Moran grunts in surprise, staggering back as blood blossoms through his trousers. He grabs his parcel and continues to run.

Watson follows, a hound on the scent of blood.

He remembers a night, years ago. The metallic tang of Holmes’ blood thick in the air, a large gash on his shoulder was bleeding freely.

“Your tenacity is unmatched,” Holmes told him, beating away several assailants.

They were back to back, the odds grim, the fire eating away at the floor even grimmer.

“And your lack of judgement is legendary, Holmes,” Watson growls good naturedly, slamming his fist into a hulking lackey.

“Invading the den of the biggest jewel smuggler in all of Christendom seemed like a good idea at the time,” Holmes had said offhandedly, slamming a kick into the very unattractive face of another crony.

Watson had laughed, looking back to see Holmes’ own devil-may-care grin, his face covered in blood, soot, and sweat.

He was beautiful.

And now he is gone.

Moran runs into the door of a towering building, now. Dozens of marble steps lead to a large door surrounded by pillars. He recognizes it as the Zoological Society’s headquarters.

Enclosed spaces are not good, not with Moran.

They are both trained soldiers. They know how to hide. How to ambush. How to kill.

But Watson does not care. His blood is boiling and the only way he knows how to make it stop is to slide his hands around Moran’s throat until he feels his windpipe crush, feels the choking of fruitless gasps, feels him spasm and still.

The building is dark and silent when Watson catches up. No footfall, no sound, nothing.

There are large, taxidermied animals filling the vast room. A fake tree full of some kind of monkey stands in front of one wall of tall windows. Wild birds line the interior wall. At the far end, a tiger.

Watson’s shoes echo loudly off the tiled floors, but he does not care. He wants Moran to hear him.

“You always were an excellent hunter, Moran,” Watson shouts, grip tightening on the hilt of his blade. “Your game record is unmatched, if I recall.”

He looks above him to see the balconies of the second floor. He is certain that Moran is crouched behind them. He cracks his knuckles.

“I believe common procedure for hunting tigers is to lure them to a tree that the hunter hides in, is that correct?”

No reply, but he did not expect one.

He wanders to the stuffed tiger running a hand over its smooth pelt.

“So tell me something, Colonel. Is this your tree, and am I your tiger?”

He sees a flicker of movement on the floor above him. Moving quickly, he ducks behind a thick glass case, dropping his blade to reach for his revolver tucked into the back of his trousers.

“I’m not here for you,” Moran’s voice booms, seemingly from everywhere. The echo in the room in incredible. “You and your detective have done enough damage.”

Watson laughs, mirthlessly. “Obviously not enough if you’re still breathing.”

“Leave it alone, doctor,” the voice shouts again.

“Tell me, Moran, why did you join forces with Moriarty?” Watson cocks his revolver, leaning back against the case. “Was it money? Power? Or do you just like being a psychotic madman’s whipping boy?”

The gunshot itself is nearly silent, but the shattering glass case behind Watson is deafening, shards raining down over him.

“He wasn’t a madman, he was a genius!” the voice booms again, and Watson can hear the cocking of the rifle.

“A murderer, you mean!”

“An artist!”  
“A delusional bastard!”

This bullet lodges itself in the ground just in front of Watson’s foot.

“I don’t want to kill you, doctor, but I will if I have to!”

“Come and get me then, Colonel!” Watson shouts, taking aim at a shifting shadow on one of the balconies. He fires.

The shot sounds like thunder.

He knows he has not hit him, but he feels satisfied anyway.

“Let’s settle this without the guns, shall we?” Watson says, throwing his revolver away.

A door opens on the opposite wall and out steps Moran. He tosses his rifle down, shedding his coat and rolling up his sleeves.

“I wish I’d killed you when I had the chance,” Moran growls.

“Truer words,” Watson grins, then he lunges.

He remembers the first, and last, time he and Holmes had come to blows. It was the only actual, serious fistfight they had ever engaged in, very early on in their acquaintance. He cannot even remember what it had been about. Perhaps the rent, perhaps a gunshot wound. He will never remember for certain. All he recalls is that he landed two good hits square on Holmes’ jaw before he was flat on his back, Holmes sitting on his hips, pinning his arms.

“Do not. Struggle. You’ll only make it worse,” Holmes hissed, straining against Watson’s strength.

“Damn you,” Watson muttered, still furious, “get the hell off me, Holmes!”

The proximity to the other man had become unbearable. At first, he thought it was because of his anger, but that was not quite right.

He looked up, straight into Holmes’ eyes, and knew that he was being watched. Dissected and catalogued. Analyzed for future reference, like one of Holmes’ experiments. He did not like being studied like the man’s tobacco ash collection. It unnerved him and…

His face had flushed and he turned his head away.

It was intoxicating, to have that genius man’s full attention on him.

“Get off,” he muttered, bucking his hips up to dislodge the man. Holmes let go and rolled off, gracefully moving to his feet and running a hand through his hair, clearing his throat.

His chest was heaving, but it was not from their argument.

Watson would give anything, anything to have Holmes’ hands on him again, even if only to cause him pain. To beat and to bruise.

But Holmes is dead.

So Watson buries his fist in Moran’s face instead.

There is a satisfying crack under his fist, the sound of Moran’s nose breaking. The Colonel stumbles back, blood flowing freely from his nose. He growls and barrels at Watson, grabbing him by the middle and tackling him to the ground.

Watson’s head collides with the floor again and he knows he has a concussion. His vision is doubled and his skull is pounding in agony. Moran is pummeling him in the abdomen, he feels a crack and he shouts in pain.

He jerks his already concussed head up, slamming it against Moran’s own. The man grunts and shifts enough that Watson can lever himself over him, wrap his hand in the man’s hair, and slam his face into the tile.

He does it again, and again, and again, until he sees a puddle of blood beneath them and what must be a tooth.

But Moran does not give in.

“You’ve got a bad leg, doctor,” he slurs out, reaching back and digging brutal fingers into Watson’s old gunshot wound around his knee.

Watson cannot help the animalistic cry that escapes him. It never healed properly, he feels like his whole leg is on fire.

Moran just twists and pushes harder.

Watson, through the haze of pain, lashes out with one hand, sinking his nails into Moran’s throat, taking hold with his fingers. Moran punches him in the face, and Watson feels his lip split, a tooth loosen.

The Colonel pulls his fist back to hit again, but Watson uses his good leg to kick the man in the gut, causing him to fall and slide across the floor, back hitting against the trophy tiger.

Watson pushes himself to his feet, staggering. His face is drenched in blood, his abdomen in pain from the broken rib, vision fuzzy. He spits out a glob of blood.

Moran is pulling himself up against the tiger. He looks no better.

“He’s gone,” Watson says, speech almost unintelligible for the swelling of his mouth. “He’s gone.”

He lumbers forward, clutching his side, using nothing but pure momentum to hurl himself back at Moran.

Moran stumbles back against the tiger as Watson closes his hands around Moran’s throat.

He wants to make sure that the bruises there when he is dead are as black and purple as he can humanly make them. He wants Moran to feel all of his pain, all of his agony. He wants the man to feel every moment he must endure when he cannot see Holmes’ self-assured grin, listen to his drunken tirades, feel his warm breath against his shoulder when he falls asleep there. Wants him to know the misery he feels from never taking the man’s face in his hands and kissing the breath out of him. For never taking the final step that he so desperately wanted to. Knows that it was what Holmes wanted, but it was his own damn fault for denying it.

He wants the second chance that he will never get.

“He’s… gone,” he whispers, fingers tightening around Moran’s throat, feels that passage beginning to collapse.

“You’re-“ Moran chokes, eyes rolling back. “You’re not- You’re not the only one who- who lost- someone!”

It takes a moment for Watson to process what he heard because of the buzzing in his ears, but when he does, he lets go of Moran like he has been burned.

Moran gasps in oxygen, sinking to his knees, clutching his chest.

Watson falls to the floor, stunned.

Silence descends again, and the two men simply sit in pools of their own blood.

Of course, Watson thinks.

“Humans are fickle,” Holmes had said to him once. Watson had returned to their rooms late after calling on a kind-hearted governess he had met while on a case.

Watson had sighed and refrained from rolling his eyes. “Whatever do you mean now, Holmes.”

Holmes sat sullenly in his threadbare chair, plucking absently at his violin’s strings. “You should never invest any emotional value in them, Watson.” He stood up, grabbing a bottle of something that looked vaguely intoxicating, sliding his violin under his arm. “They will only disappoint you.”

He watched as Holmes moved silently towards his bedroom, stopping only momentarily to add, “Enjoy your day with Miss Morstan tomorrow, Watson, as you will undoubtedly be meeting with her again.”

His door had closed quietly.

He felt the same twisting in his gut now as he had felt then.

“Missed opportunities,” he said aloud.

“Missed opportunities,” Moran echoed.

They sat there in the moonlit silence for a long time, each struggling for steady breath.

Eventually, Moran struggled to his feet. He shuffled to where he dropped his rifle and picked it up. He began making his way to the door they had burst in through, but he stopped. Turning back to where Watson sat, he said, “I am sorry, doctor,” before exiting the quiet building.

Watson sat there for a long while, staring at the now bloodstained tiger.

“Time to go,” he whispered to no one. He staggered to his feet and began the long journey home.

 

“I don’t believe in failure,” Holmes had told him the night they had danced with the gypsies at their camp. They were both far too drunk to be talking, but far too drunk to stop themselves.

Watson’s head was lying in Holmes’ lap as the other man ran fingers over his hair.

“Oh?” Watson pondered, indulgent.

“Mm,” Holmes replied, eyes slipping closed. “There is always another option. A secret. An escape route. Contingency plan. Hidden passageway.”

Watson chuckled. “I never took you for an optimist, old cock,” wrapping his hand around Holmes’ hand. He ran his thumb across the knuckles, softly.

“Not an optimist, mother hen,” Holmes replied with a tired, hazy smile. “A realist.”

“Indeed,” Watson whispered, eyes closing of their own accord.

He would never be sure, but he thought he felt the warm press of lips against his own in that moment.

But it may always have been a dream.

 

 

Watson’s newspaper is proclaiming the death of the Honourable Ronald Adair the next morning. His eyes are so swollen shut he can barely read the text, but Mary assures him that that is what it says.

“Died around ten o’clock last night. Doors locked from the inside,” Mary says, hand over his. “Shot through the head, oh it sounds terrible. They think it was a suicide, but they can’t find a weapon.”

Watson takes the paper from his wife to look at the article again, before sighing. “He would have loved this one,” he says very softly.  
Mary grips his shoulder tightly, before saying, “I know, John. I know.”

Watson drops the paper back on to the breakfast table, before standing with his wife’s help, moving off into his study to sit at his typewriter.

The paper remains on the kitchen table that morning. The front page is a photograph of Ronald Adair’s Park Lane home. In that photograph, several members of Scotland Yard stand in the street, surrounded by neighborhood onlookers, a few reporters.

And an old, hobbled book salesman with a false beard so overt, that it is covert.


End file.
